


Mayfield Aftermath

by hwshipper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-26
Updated: 2009-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploration of Mayfield aftermath issues. Set during early season 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Moon Landings

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: House/Alvie, House/Wilson  
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.  
> Beta: srsly_yes hitting the nail on the head as usual  
> Dedicated to jiraiyasgirl for her generous donation to the hl_bday_drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: **Set during 6.01/6.02 _Broken_.

The moon comes out from behind a cloud and sends a shaft of light across the room, falling on House's bed.

Alvie lifts his head to bathe his face in the glow. "Hey, the full moon. Awesome, man." He lets out a werewolf howl, and cups a hand around one of House's buttocks. "Richter was telling me the other day about the moon landings. How they were faked, I mean."

"Bullshit." House yawns.

Alvie puts his head on one side and hums a couple of bars of REM's _Man on the Moon_. "It's true. I mean, the evidence is massive. Like, there's no stars in the photos."

Alvie starts rattling off half-baked conspiracy theory junk, stripping off the condom and wriggling a little in the bed as he talks, and House listens with a quarter of an ear. He could start marshaling counter facts, but in his current post-coital state, he can't be bothered. Let Alvie expend some surplus enthusiasm on this.

The first time Alvie came bopping across the room and squirming into House's bed, House had muttered and moaned but not protested, and after that he hadn't resisted because, goddamnit, it worked.

It's as if there can only be so much energy between them in their small, bare space, and their couplings seem to shift the balance from Alvie to House. It calms Alvie down, tames the mania. It makes House more alive, less broken. Like fire and water, air and earth; poles equalize, equilibrium is reached, and they each gain some temporary respite from their demons.

It isn't lovemaking, and House never cries.

That only happens with Wilson.

That happens in snatched trysts in empty rooms, in hard institutional chairs, in darkness long after visiting hours. It matters not one jot that the body on House's lap has breasts and hips and lipstick and too-long hair. What matters is the same emotional landing place, connecting, actually caring for someone.

Someone who's ready to hand over car keys to House for a mad road trip, whether with a recently woken coma guy or a depressed deluded superhero. Someone who also has a hopeless bond with a damaged best friend languishing in a crater of timeless, bleak desolation. Hell, after all these years House has been involved with a man married or attached elsewhere so much of that time, maybe that final unavailability is even part of the attraction.

And they have quite similar faces, too.

House tunes in again to hear Alvie gabbling, "...and the flag flew even though there wouldn't have been any wind on the moon."

"The flag did not fly, it was held up in a frame," House says with newly-found patience. "Now stop talking moon crap and let me get some sleep."


	2. Unzipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House moves in with Wilson. Who only has one bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set following 6.01/6.02 Broken.

**Mayfield Aftermath: Unzipped**

_"Wilson's got one bedroom. I don't think we can get any more connected without unzipping." _House to Dr. Nolan, 6.03 _Epic Fail._

* * *

It had been a long day. Wilson had diagnosed three possible prostate cancer cases in succession and felt he might dream of long lines of late middle-aged men awaiting digital rectal examinations. He arrived home and was assembling ingredients for spaghetti bolognese when he recognized the sharp rap of a cane on his front door.

The House on Wilson's doorstep had shorter hair and more of a beard than when Wilson had last seen him, peeping out from Mayfield's austere portal three months before, but the manner and voice were reassuringly familiar.

"Wilson." House stamped over the threshold. "I've come to stay."

Wilson shut the door and followed House into the living room. "Have you… broken out? Are you… on the run?"

"Nope. I'm officially discharged, complete with a recommendation to get my medical license back. And I didn't even blackmail or badger Nolan into it." House dropped onto the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. His jacket fell open and Wilson noticed House was wearing a new T-shirt; white with a big yellow smiley face on it.

"Wow. That's great." Wilson was genuinely pleased. "You should have called, I'd have come and picked you up."

"I caught the bus," House said, and that statement hung quietly in the air between the two of them for a minute.

"So, tell me about it," Wilson said presently.

"But surely your friend Nolan will have kept you up-to-date," House said, a touch of acid in his voice.

Wilson winced. "We spoke _once_.--No, twice; once when he called to warn that you would be calling me, and once when I called him to tell him that you had. That was it."

House grumbled about that for a while, but seemed to accept it, which was a relief to Wilson.

Over spaghetti bolognese House rambled rather randomly about life in Mayfield. About detox in an empty room, table tennis and group therapy, conspiracy theorists and mute cello-playing women, talent shows and a manic rapping roommate, the tragedy of a failed superhero and the healing powers of a music box. There were gaps, and Wilson knew he wasn't hearing the whole story, but was glad to hear whatever House wanted to tell him.

And House was off the Vicodin. The news left Wilson both ecstatically happy and full of foreboding. He didn't try and express the latter. Or the former.

"Nolan thinks I shouldn't live on my own, I need company," House ended. "Different environment. New habits."

"Right."

"At first I thought I'd use this as an excuse to hook up with a hot babe, but they all seem to be otherwise occupied," House mused. "Cuddy's got a screaming baby, Cameron's exchanged wedding vows with Skippy, and Thirteen's got an obsessive black dude hoping I'm not going back to my job. So, here I am."

"Of course," Wilson said gravely. He wondered briefly whether to ask House to sleep on the couch, but decided against it.

* * *

House went to bed early that evening, but was still awake and flipping through an old medical journal when Wilson came to join him. Wilson always liked seeing House in his reading glasses, the half-moons delicately balanced at the end of his nose. Cuteness personified.

Wilson slid under the covers next to House and said, a trifle diffidently, "I guess Nolan doesn't know about _this_."

"Do you tell _your_ shrink everything?" House plucked his spectacles off his nose and put them on the nightstand.

"Enough." Wilson was cautious.

"And no more. Exactly." House slumped back into the pillows.

House was right, of course. Wilson sighed and turned out the lamp, plunging the room into semi-darkness. A glint of light still shone through a crack in the drapes. Wilson had just decided that things were quite complicated enough for the moment, thank you, and he should simply say _Goodnight _and roll over and go to sleep, when House spoke.

"There was someone else," House said unexpectedly. "She looked a bit like you, actually. You in drag. Except she was altogether more attractive than you in drag, of course."

"What, even that time at that conference in Chicago?" Wilson tried to joke, but his mind was speeding onwards.

He felt House grin in the dark. "Now there's a question."

_There was someone else. _"She's a patient at Mayfield?" Wilson hoped not; that could be a recipe for disaster.

"No. Visitor. Sister-in-law to the silent Jacqueline du Pré. An enabler of the unstable-r, she loaned me her car so I could go on a stupid trip with a patient; sound familiar?... Anyway, apparently I connected with her enough so Nolan called it progress."

"You going to see her, now you're out?" Wilson was feeling his way.

"Naw. Bit awkward, what with her husband, her kids, the newly-mellow cello player, and oh yes, the whole family moving to Arizona."

"Oh." Wilson understood. He slid a hand across the covers and rested it gently against House's shoulder. House lay still for a minute, then shifted position to nestle his neck against Wilson's hand. Wilson stroked a little, then ran his fingers through House's hair. House let out a small sigh, then turned on his side towards Wilson.

They kissed gently, far more quietly and cautiously than Wilson might have guessed they would. He realized House was every bit as concerned as he was that _everything _would be different, and the relief that some things could be just the same as ever was immense. They clung and moaned and rubbed against each other, a little more intense with every second, and when House came with a gasp into Wilson's fist his whole body convulsed and his forehead hit the headboard with a sharp thump.

Wilson wondered through his own mutely glorious orgasm if his downstairs neighbor would have heard the noise. He resolved to move the bed away from the wall a little the next day.

They lay very close together for the rest of the night.

* * *

"Dr Wilson! Is it true?" Thirteen fell into step next to Wilson as he walked down the corridor.

Taub appeared on his other side, walking more quickly with his shorter strides. "House is out of Mayfield?"

It had been precisely ten minutes since Wilson had broken the news to Cuddy and left her office. Wilson rolled his eyes a little. "News travels fast."

"He is out? That's great." Thirteen was enthusiastic. "How is he?"

"When will he be back at work?" Taub got straight to the point.

"Hey, enough of the questions," Wilson protested. "He only turned up on my doorstep last night. He's taking it slow, staying with me for a while until he figures things out, alright?"

Taub and Thirteen nodded in unison as they arrived at Wilson's office door. Wilson went in and shut the door firmly behind him, but then stood still, listening.

"Staying with Dr. Wilson!" Taub's voice resonated through the door. "I bet that'll be a barrel of fun. For House."

Thirteen's voice was low but clear. "Doesn't Wilson only have one bedroom?"

Wilson felt his mouth twist as he tried to both grin and grimace at the same time.

"I don't know, there's another room, remember from the bachelor party?" Taub spoke more quietly this time.

"I think House said that was a study, not a bedroom," Thirteen opined.

Wilson was grateful that House had locked the study door that evening; his Amber shrine kept safe from the collective gaze of Princeton Plainsboro. He hung up his coat and laid mental odds with himself that Chase would be running a book that House and Wilson were sharing a bedroom by the end of the day.

He'd have to persuade House to sleep on the couch.


	3. Positive Role Model

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House visits Mayfield as an outpatient. Wilson goes along too, and meets Alvie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Set during 6.03 Epic Fail.

**Mayfield Aftermath: Positive Role Model**

"I might have driven myself crazy, but I can drive," House protested when Wilson offered to drive him to his first meeting with Nolan.

Wilson mildly explained that he had the day off, after working through the previous weekend to try and save a stage four six-year-old patient, and would like to get away for a bit. "Mayfield's got all that parkland, I'll just stroll around and get some fresh air."

House hesitated, then shrugged and nodded. "Fine, if you want to waste your day off chauffeuring me around."

Once there, House strolled in through the large ominous front door without hesitation, as if he hadn't been semi-involuntarily confined there for the last three months. Wilson came inside rather more diffidently, followed House as far as Nolan's office door, and left him there. Part of Wilson would have liked to hang around and meet Dr. Nolan. Maybe he could ask Nolan _was this all really true, was House really so much improved, would it last?._..

But Wilson's rational side knew Nolan wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't tell him anything anyway.

And another part of Wilson was afraid that Nolan would take one look at him and haul him into House's session for a stint of couple's counseling.

Wilson ambled back towards the exit, but couldn't resist hanging around inside a little more, hoping to get a feel for House's last home. He spent a few minutes chatting with a passing female blonde doctor who obviously knew House well. Wilson explained who he was with one of his most charming smiles, and found that the smile together with his doctor's credentials eased him past several doors to a large room with patients sitting and wandering around.

A thin man with dark rimmed glasses started throwing books around, which alarmed Wilson momentarily until it became clear he was acting up and everyone else in the entire room was ignoring him. The blonde doctor sighed a little and went to deal with him, and Wilson was left to walk around by himself.

He saw a piano and paused for a moment with his hand on the lid. He wondered if House had played it, if House had sat down and run his fingers over the keys, created beautiful music in this chaotic place.

He then found a door down to an exercise yard, and a tall black man shooting hoops. Another man sat in a corner, nursing bandaged hands. Wilson paused for a minute, watching.

"Hey, it's a new doctor!" a voice crowed excitedly in his ear, and Wilson turned to find a young man in a bright T-shirt and with supercharged eyes. "Welcome to the asylum! Are you visiting, or are you working here?"

"Uh, just visiting," Wilson hastened to explain. "I'm Dr. Wilson, here with a friend. Just looking around."

"Wilson?" The man's eyes practically burst into flame. "You're House's friend! Is he here? Is the House in the house?"

"He's seeing Dr. Nolan." Wilson's brain frantically clicked through everything House had talked about. "You must be Alvie?"

"He mentioned me?" Alvie seemed genuinely delighted, although Wilson suspected it didn't take much to delight Alvie. "That is just awesome! Tell him I'm cool. Tell him I'm taking my meds! He'll be pleased to know, he was my bro."

"You were roommates?" Wilson inquired cautiously.

"That's right. Hey, wanna see our room?" Alvie didn't wait for an answer, but grabbed Wilson by the arm and led him inside. They went down a corridor to a small, bare room with two beds. Alvie threw himself down on the left hand one.

Wilson stayed in the doorway, not wanting to intrude, looking at the right hand bed which was empty, stripped down to the mattress. So _this _had been House's home for the last three months. He recalled House's apartment; the guitars, the piano, the books, the warmth in the colors and fabrics. It was difficult to imagine him existing here, in this rather barren landscape, with this manic roommate.

"He was a cool roomie," Alvie was rattling on. "Some people find it hard to deal with me, y'know? We got along just fine. We were partners in crime, doing the time...he helped me rhyme..."

Wilson smiled.

"Tell the House man that the meds are helping me, mos' def, but the docs are finding it hard to get the dosage right." Alvie got up from his bed, zig-zagged gracefully across the floor, and fell onto House's bed. "Last week I could hardly get out of bed. This week I can hardly sit still. I _dread _the meds. The dose is... gross, not even close..."

"Let the docs diag-nose," Wilson suggested, falling into Alvie's rhythm and immediately faintly embarrassed at himself. "Uh, these things can take some time to figure out."

"You're the man!" Alvie nodded, pleased, shifting position, rolling over. A shaft of sunlight fell through the window onto his squirming body, Alvie paused for a second to bask in the warmth. And suddenly Wilson could imagine House there after all, the two of them balanced on each side of the room, giving each other some peace.

Wilson blinked, and the image was gone.

"I'd better go." Wilson looked at his watch. "It was good meeting you, Alvie."

"Good meeting you too, Dr. Wilson." Alvie sat up, splaying his arms backwards. "He never talked about you, but he talked about you all the time, y'know what I mean?"

"Um... no, not really." Wilson was startled.

"Well, he said he had a friend called Wilson but didn't say much about you. But he'd often say something like, 'A friend of mine says this,' or 'A friend of mine does that.' And you were like his one friend outside, so I always knew it was you," Alvie burbled enthusiastically. "And I was like his one friend inside, so I felt a bit of a bond with you. You're looking out for him now, right?"

"I am," Wilson confirmed, feeling a little strange.

"Tell him he can keep the T-shirt," Alvie suddenly remembered, with a slap to his forehead. "My acid house T-shirt, the smiley face, yeah? I only found it was missing after he'd gone. Tell him he's the Acid House man and he should wear it to see patients, dude. Give him some style, make 'em smile."

Wilson thought of House's plan to go into research, and wondered if House would ever see patients again. "I'll tell him awhile."

Alvie bopped his head in appreciation.

* * *

After that, Wilson sat outside in the car until House joined him.

"How was it?" Wilson didn't expect any great confidence, but hoped for some indication of progress.

"I need a hobby," House said unexpectedly. "I need to keep busy. I thought I'd come to your cooking class. "

Wilson was astonished. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's that blue apron you wear. It's a total turn-on. I want some of that."

Wilson let out a snort of amusement; House had ribbed him mercilessly about the blue apron the first time he'd seen it. "Alright. On one condition. Try not to be a jerk. Please."

"Scout's honor." House saluted.

"I met Alvie," Wilson said, reaching for his car keys. "He's quite a character."

"That's one way of putting it." House sounded amused.

"He said to tell you he's taking his meds. And that you can keep his smiley T-shirt which you stole."

House dipped his eyes and grinned. "He's taking his meds? Really? Just call me a positive role model."

"He seemed like a nice guy," Wilson ventured. "I'm sure he'd like to see you again."

At that, House shook his head vehemently. "Nuh huh. I told you about the graduation parties, with the re-birthday cake, right? Where everyone wishes you well and hopes to NEVER-SEE-YOU-AGAIN."

"I'm guessing that's as a fellow patient, not a visitor."

House shook his head again. "Alvie doesn't need me. He needs his body weight in lithium carbonate and a frontal lobotomy just to shut him up. And why are we still sitting here? _Home, James, and don't spare the horses._"

Wilson mimed cracking a whip, and hit the ignition.


	4. Therapy by Meatball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House goes to cooking class with Wilson, and meets a Chinese woman called Cecile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during 6.03 Epic Fail.

**Mayfield Aftermath: Therapy by Meatball**

_"You would pick up my laundry if I asked you to."_ Wilson to House, 4.05 _Mirror Mirror._

* * *

Ben Gusto Culinary Arts was blue apron heaven. It was busy and bustling; House was intrigued to see how many people apparently wanted to learn how to cook.

"It's Italian cuisine this month, that's always popular," Wilson explained.

In a quiet moment, while Wilson was off in conversation with the (tall, attractive) instructor, House overheard the small, slim Chinese woman at the counter behind them swearing madly in Mandarin. Amused, he looked around to see her stirring incessantly at a risotto with one hand, while trying to grate cheese with the other.

House moved forward and took over the cheese grater. Hey, he'd made it to first base; _don't be a jerk_. Wilson would be proud of him.

"Thank you," she said with a smile. House beamed back. Be friendly, second base.

_"You're welcome,"_ he said in Mandarin, and her smile grew broad. Connecting with people, definitely third base. Nolan would be proud, too. He grated Parmesan and switched back to English. "That smells delicious. Is that bacon?"

"Pancetta." She stirred vigorously. "I had forgotten how much you have to stir risotto if you cook it on the stove. It's hard work."

"Why _does _risotto need so much stirring?" House pondered aloud.

"Apparently it's necessary to release the starch from the short-grain rice," she explained. "Makes the sauce thick and creamy, or you just get rice in broth. But there are other ways, I've been oven-baking risotto recently. It's much easier. I'm Cecile, by the way."

Interacting with people like a normal human being. Home base! House could hear the crowd go wild. "I'm Greg. But call me House."

"Dr. Wilson has mentioned you." Cecile nodded. "It's so nice to meet a friend of his. He was so lonely when he started this class. We wondered why, then a little later I saw a picture of his girlfriend and he told me she died in a bus crash. What a terrible thing to happen."

"Ah." So _that _was when Wilson had started these classes.

"His shrink suggested he come here, I think," Cecile added.

"No shit. I'm kinda here for a similar reason myself." House wondered if everyone in the entire enormous kitchen was there for the good of their mental health. He had a brief ridiculous vision of an entire leisure industry built on patronage by psychologists. "Are _you _here for therapy by meatball too?"

"No, I came to learn Western cooking to teach my son." Cecile swirled the wooden spoon around the rice. "I can teach him Chinese cooking, but he wants to be able to cook meatballs and spaghetti, and ragu, too."

"Ungrateful traitor to his heritage," House sympathized.

"He was born here and has lived in New Jersey all his life." Cecile was solemn. "I should have taught him how to cook when he was young, but I always assumed his wife would cook for him when he left home."

"She can't cook, won't cook?" House asked. "Too busy with a career? These modern girls who want to be businesswomen, lawyers, and even doctors, I don't know."

Cecile paused the spoon. "There is no wife. My son left home to live with a nice Chinese boy."

"Oh!" House hadn't seen that coming.

"But _his _mother never taught him to cook, either," Cecile said with a smile, and resumed stirring.

House dipped a spoon into the rice, tasted it, and remarked, _"Kids today,"_ in a despairing tone, in Mandarin.

"Your accent is terrible," Cecile said, in English. "That's enough cheese now, thank you."

House put down the grater and surveyed the small mountain of Parmesan. "How come you're not making meatballs, like Wilson's great balls of fire back there? There's much less scope for jokes about creamed rice."

"We can choose to cook from a number of Italian dishes this month," Cecile explained. "Next week I am going to try gnocchi. There should be more opportunity for jokes about gnocchi."

"Gnocchi?" House grinned. "Very ballsy."

"I am not a big fan of gnocchi. They always come out so lumpy and heavy," Cecile complained.

House recalled the oven-baked risotto. "Have you tried baking the potatoes instead of boiling them? There'd be less moisture. Could work."

"I will try it. In fact, we should try it together," said Cecile.

_"It's a date,"_ said House, in Mandarin.

"Hello, Cecile!" Wilson joined them, smiling and bright. "I hope House isn't annoying you."

"No no, we are having a nice conversation," Cecile assured him, and added with a smile, "A rice conversation, even."

"Get a taste of this," House exclaimed, dipping a fresh spoon into the pan, and proffering it to Wilson. Wilson didn't take it, but leaned forward to suck the risotto off. He closed his eyes briefly as he swallowed, dark eyelashes fluttering in a quick burst of ecstasy. House was momentarily glad of the blue apron, feeling a stirring in his groin as he watched the lump move in Wilson's throat.

"Cecile, that's wonderful," Wilson exclaimed. "Perhaps a hint more nutmeg?"

"Maybe so." Cecile smiled, and added in Mandarin to House, with a wink, _"You make a lovely couple."_

_"Wash your mouth out!"_ House replied in kind, with an expression of exaggerated horror.

Wilson clearly understood the sentiments, and said in a tone of mock reproval, "You must stop trying to pair me off with everyone, Cecile!" He added to House, "She's a great one for matchmaking. I only have to say hello to any of the women in the class and she tries to pair us off."

"It's because I can't marry my son off anymore," Cecile protested. She added in Mandarin, _"Maybe I should not have been looking at the _women_ in the class."_

_"I take the fifth,"_ said House.

* * *

As the apartment door closed behind Cuddy, House added the finishing touches to the gnocchi and grumbled, "Wilson's right, you're an incorrigible matchmaker."

"You've got flour on your T-shirt," Cecile pointed out.

House dabbed at it, then shrugged. "I need to do laundry anyway. I had to wear Wilson's socks this morning."

"You should be wearing an apron." Cecile looked around the kitchen, and found one. House slipped it over his head. It had a fairly horrific fruit and vegetable design on it, trust Wilson to own such a thing.

"You are very domestic," Cecile said, standing back and smiling at the sight. "You and Dr. Wilson can live here very happily together."

"It would never work out." House spoke lightly as he put the tray in the oven. "Too many cooks spoil the broth, you know."

"You're not cooking so much as working towards culinary scientific perfection," Cecile said, and House knew she was right. "You'll get bored, Dr. Wilson can have his kitchen back then. You can start doing the laundry instead. You'll be married in no time."

"You just told Cuddy she should kiss me," House objected.

"Or leave." Cecile shrugged. "She's obviously got a thing for you. Otherwise she would have noticed you're obviously not sleeping on the couch."

That startled House, and left him temporarily speechless.

Cecile laughed. "Dr. House. If you want to pretend you're not sharing the one bedroom in this apartment, you need to leave some blankets and pillows out in the living room."

"Actually, I'm not sleeping anywhere, because I'm just not sleeping much right now." House changed tack, and there was enough truth in this for honesty to ring clear in his voice. As he spoke, he felt a sharp twinge in his leg, and leaned against a counter for support.

Cecile looked at him for a long moment. "I sometimes make sauces when I can't sleep. You could try improving that ragu recipe from class. I can recommend Chinese star anise. It's unusual, but it works very well."

"I'll give it a go. I was thinking of caramelizing the onions, too," House mused. "And I do sleep on the couch, by the way. I'm very tidy, I fold everything up and put it all in the closet during the day."

Cecile shrugged and replied in Mandarin. House couldn't catch it exactly, but he rather thought it sounded like, _"Then the bedclothes are not the only thing in the closet."_


	5. Captain Hook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson asks the condo board for some garden improvements, but House has annoyed the downstairs neighbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during 6.04 The Tyrant.

_"You always hurt the one you love," _House, bursting into song after a conversation with Wilson, 6.03_ Epic Fail_.

* * *

Wilson arrived at the condo board meeting slightly early, to make sure the president of the board had received his proposal. He found the president, a tall gray-haired retired schoolteacher called Sandra, sitting at her large round dining table flicking through paperwork.

"Everything okay with my garden renovation?" Wilson asked hopefully, perching two seats away from her.

Sandra picked up a sheet of paper and scrutinized it. "Yes, Dr. Wilson, it should be fine. We've got a little spare gardening money in the budget, as you know. And you're willing to pay for the bench, so that should be no problem at all."

Wilson knew Sandra hoped he would take over the condo board presidency at some point, and tried to be friendly to him as a consequence. She had the thankless task of running the board because no other resident would do it. She had a husband whom Wilson saw occasionally in the hallway, but never at one of these meetings.

"So long as Captain Hook doesn't kick up a fuss," Sandra added ominously. The one-armed Vietnam vet downstairs was a thorn in all their sides.

"I hope not." Wilson fretted slightly. "It's not that controversial."

He was proposing to renovate the far end of the garden, a pleasant but overgrown spot, a place where patches of sunlight filtered gently through the shelter of a tall old tree. Wilson wanted to create a small formal area to sit out in, with decking underfoot, some shrubs in pots, and a bench. Amber had often gone out there for a breath of fresh air; she had always simply hauled a kitchen chair outside, and now Wilson did too, but a bench would be much more convenient. Wilson also wanted to get the tree pruned professionally, which obviously hadn't been done for many years.

"He's on the ground floor, he uses the garden more than anyone. If he doesn't want a bench, you can say goodbye to it." Sandra shrugged. "Also, you're in his bad books at the moment. He's not happy with your lodger, I hear? He complained to me--cooking smells, noise?"

"I'm dealing with all that," Wilson said edgily. Captain Hook had clashed with the boy who wouldn't grow up. It didn't bode well, but Wilson hoped he had things under control.

"I told him you would. I've got quite enough to worry about with this gutter leak at the moment." Sandra straightened her paperwork as other residents came filing into the room.

The meeting was strained and gloomy as these meetings always were; residents with gripes, complaints about maintenance, the incompetence of the management company. Captain Hook was most vociferous in a tirade about plumbing. Wilson sat quietly and vowed never, _never_, to take on the presidency of this board. Also not to let House near one of these meetings in a million years.

Right at the end they got to his garden renovation. The president detailed the proposal, explained that Dr. Wilson was willing to pay for the bench, she saw no problem, were there any objections?

"I'm not happy," Captain Hook said, straight off. "I'd like to discuss this with Dr. Wilson outside this meeting first. I'll let you know if we come to a resolution."

Wilson gulped. Sandra nodded, and said, "Fine. If you can come to an agreement, then do go ahead with the work, Dr. Wilson. Any other business? No? Then thank-you all very much for coming. See you next time."

Captain Hook strode out ahead of the crowd and down the stairs, and Wilson hurried to catch him. "Shall we go to my apartment and talk, Cap--uh, Murphy?"

He nodded, and they stepped inside Wilson's apartment. Wilson was glad House was out at the hospital.

"What's your concern?" Wilson asked, in a polite and deferential tone.

"Your jerk of a lodger is the problem," Murphy snarled.

"Is it really such a problem?" Wilson put on his most wheedling voice. "A bit of garlic? The sound of a cane tapping? I've spoken to House, asked him to write to you and apologize--"

"He broke into my apartment."

Damn_. Damn, damn, damn. _Wilson closed his eyes briefly. "I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."

"Fuck what he meant. He broke in."

Wilson tried to be soothing. "He's been ill. He's been in a hospital for the last three months. It's taking him time to settle down."

"He's not settling down here. I'm calling the police tomorrow if he doesn't leave, and pressing charges. I didn't fight in 'Nam to end up in an apartment building with a couple of pansies living above me," Murphy said, and Wilson froze rigid.

"Mr Murphy," Wilson began hesitantly. "I don't know what you think you heard, but--"

"I know what I heard," the man said loftily. "I'm not having it, d'ya hear me? He broke into my apartment and that gives me the right to press charges. He leaves, or he goes to jail."

And Murphy turned on his heel and left.

Wilson's heart plummeted out of his chest and fell through the floor.

* * *

"Whoa!" House and Wilson cried out in unison as the alligator lunged out of the water and snapped up the frog between long jaws.

As the alligator bore the frog triumphantly away, House remarked, "Very apt, actually. Didn't Captain Hook's hand get eaten by a crocodile?"

Wilson had never mentioned Murphy's nickname to House, fearing such knowledge would simply tempt House to use it to his face. Trust House to learn it anyway. Or possibly just to come up with it himself.

"I believe it did." Wilson delved into long-term memory for more. "And the croc also swallowed a clock, and haunted Captain Hook afterwards."

House clicked his tongue in a _tick, tock_, noise. "I think Murphy's been haunted for a long time. _Tick, tock._ But, now the clock is silenced."

Wilson wondered what on earth House had done. He knew he shouldn't inquire too closely, but whatever he'd done, it was worth it. Murphy was completely mollified. Warmed by the thought, Wilson edged a little closer to House, and the two of them nestled cosily in front of National Geographic for the rest of the evening.

The following day, Wilson placed the order for the garden bench. He already knew what he wanted and spelled it out carefully down the telephone; good solid wood with a small brass plaque attached to the back, reading '_Amber Volakis, 1975-2008.'_

He reflected as he put the phone down that he and House were both Lost Boys in their own way.


End file.
